


Medal of Honour

by lorcaswhisky (aristofranes)



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Angst, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Loss, season finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristofranes/pseuds/lorcaswhisky
Summary: (Spoilers for the season 1 finale of Discovery.)There had been no time for reflection. There had been no time for grief. There would have to be time now.Admiral Katrina Cornwell reflects on the tumultuous events of the past few months, and wonders how it came to this.





	Medal of Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post: https://fuckyeahcornwellandlorca.tumblr.com/post/170846407633/i-totally-have-this-headcanon-that-the-brass-was

They had offered her the Medal of Honour. Katrina scoffed at the thought of it. The Admiral who had led the Federation to peace. The Admiral who had so nearly led the Federation to carry out a catastrophic genocide.

She had refused the award.

Following the ceremony, Katrina made excuses - reports to write, ambassadors to appease - and slipped out of the celebrations early. Small talk over canapes held little interest to her. Back in her rooms at Headquarters, the lights turned low, she slung her uniform jacket over the table and lowered herself into a chair, letting out an involuntary sigh. She rubbed her forehead wearily.

It had been a long day. A long week. Even with the truce agreed - albeit shakily, both sides all too wary of a trick on the part of the other - there was still so much to do. Writing of speeches. Recalling remaining Federation ships from former frontlines. Redistribution of supplies. Rebuilding of starbases, homes, schools. Redeployment of personnel. Seemingly endless designs for monuments to the fallen in need of her sign-off. Everything was still so urgent.

There had been no time for anything else.

Looking out now, over the skyline of Paris, people scurrying through the streets below as the rain fell, it was almost impossible to believe how close they had all come, either to annihilation or atrocity. How close she had come to sacrificing everything she thought she stood for. How straightforward it had all seemed. Katrina shuddered.

Burnham had had to _persuade_ her. Persuade her not to slaughter thousands of innocent people, destroy homes and families.

Katrina hadn't slept properly since that day, her dreams stabbed through with visions of what might have been. What might have been if Burnham hadn't been so quick-witted, so brave. What might have been if she hadn't been so persuasive.

Sarek, of course, had been pragmatic. The response was proportionate to the threat. A logical course. An alternative had been presented. On balance, it had proved to be the better plan. He made it seem no less complicated than negotiating an unexpected change in dinner plans.

The knowledge that Sarek was right did nothing to comfort her.

She closed her eyes, feeling the weight and the exhaustion of the past few days begin to creep up on her.

There had been no time for reflection.

As if on cue, the other thought, the one she had been fighting so hard to supress, rippled to the surface.

It seemed almost ridiculous to her that amidst all those deaths, all the needless destruction, the thing that seemed most tangible was the loss of one single life.

 _Her_ Gabriel.

She had suggested a posthumous Medal of Honour. But Command, what was left of it, had been reluctant, concerned that such a high-profile award, coupled with the hasty reclassification to _'ABOVE TOP SECRET'_ of all files relating to ‘Lorca, G’, would attract too much curiosity. Better to let him be forgotten. No medal. No ceremony.

And so, while the rest of his crew - no, what _should have been_ his crew - shone with pride, their well-earned medals gleaming on their chests and applause ringing in their ears, Gabriel was consigned to rumour, forever the coward who had destroyed the _Buran_ but saved his own skin.

She tried to recall their last meeting - their last _real_ meeting - and found that she couldn't. That she wasn't even sure _when_ their last meeting had been.

The thought of him dying alone, there, threatened to overwhelm her.

The tears came at last, unbidden and unexpected, grief and guilt and relief over everything that had passed tumbling over each other. She sobbed until she shook, her throat raw, head throbbing, eyes burning.

Once the tears and the shudders finally subsided, her face still wet, she allowed herself to remain still, coaxing her breath back to a normal rate, taking solace in the silence around her.

There had been no time for grief. There would have to be time now.

She always kept a well-stocked drinks cabinet in her quarters wherever she was - Admiral's prerogative. She crossed the room towards it now, opened the door and cast a tired eye over its contents.

Single malt. That seemed appropriate.

She poured a generous measure, and solemnly raised the glass to the air. A quiet ceremony.

"Here's to you, Gabriel."

**Author's Note:**

> (It's in my contract that all fics I write involving Katrina and Gabriel must also include whiskey.)
> 
> Thoughts, comments, always welcome :)


End file.
